$45,000 a gallon. Gas? No…eye drops

 This morning I once again will revisit my life long fascination with how much things cost. What exactly is it that determines the price of something? I know all about the laws of scarcity, of supply and demand pressures. Still when I encounter a surprising price point for something it always baffles me. Take this for example…

I recently developed a slight infection in one of my eyes. I visited my optometrist of choice who said it was a minor thing that could be cleared up with a three day course of a special eyedrop that she promised to call in to my pharmacy. When I picked up the very, very tiny container at CVS later that day I noticed that the bottle contained a mere 2.5 mili-liters of the cure for my eye problem. To put this in perspective…a gallon contains roughly 3,800 mile-liters. We are talking a splash of eyedrops here, in a bottle that was smaller than my pinky. So, when the friendly pharmacist announced that I owed him $29.75 I was astonished. I immediately started thinking of all the stuff I could buy for $29.75. The list was long and impressive. But my eye was hurting so I paid the man.

Then I started doing that thing I do when something baffles me. I sat in the parking lot…thinking. On my way to CVS I had stopped by a service station to fill up my tank with gas, the price of which has been all over the news of late. I paid a whopping $4.19 a gallon. Just a few years ago that same gallon would have cost around $2.75. But as I sat in the parking lot of CVS I started doing some math and discovered if the eyedrops I had just purchased was sold by the gallon—it would have cost $45,000!!!

Then I did some more thinking.

To get that gallon of gas to that service station pump, Somebody had to suck up crude oil from the depths of the earth where more often than not the drilling attempt fails. The labor involved in finding and then pumping that crude up from the earth is crazy dangerous and expensive. But that’s just the beginning. Once it’s pumped to the surface it has to be transported to a refinery somewhere. That refinery was built ages ago at great expense and the cost of its continued operation is immense. Once the crude oil is refined, it must then be loaded onto great tankers and shipped across vast oceans at great expense to ports where it is then transferred onto 18-wheel trucks that drive it across the country at great expense to filling stations great and small so that a guy like me can pull up, lift a pump handle and fill my gas tank up, all the while bitching and moaning at the ridiculous price of gasoline.

But, what of the people who provided me with this tiny 2.5 mili-liter container of eyedrops? Somebody, or more likely a machine tool, had to mix the three ingredients together, shake it up, then insert it into a mini plastic container with a child-proof top, slap a tiny label on the little container, place it in a tiny box and ship it to my CVS, after which they would call it a day and meet up for drinks at the local Buffalo Wild Wings.

When I brought this up later to Pam she listened politely then said, “Aren’t you glad you live in a world where instead of losing sight in your eye because of an infection, you can pay thirty bucks and be cured?”

This is what she does…she listens to my unhinged harangues and shuts them down with truth bombs.

But…$45,000 a gallon for eye drops?

Today’s Grievance

 Every now and then I feel the need to write a post about something that annoys me, a personal grievance I harbor in my worst moments. It’s a minor irritant at best but that doesn’t mean it’s not super annoying. Here goes…

Most days during my retirement I make the drive from my house in Short Pump to Hope Cafe. It’s a 6 mile trip down Pump Road and Patterson Avenue. I usually make this drive around 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning. If you are familiar with this drive you know that both Pump and Patterson are four lane, divided highways. The traffic is never bad, some days busier than others, but never bumper to bumper. The speed limits vary along this route from 25 mph in the Godwin school zone to 55 mph when you cross into Goochland County on Patterson.

At this point it is only fair to mention that I’m not exactly what anyone would call a cautious driver. I have always viewed speed limit signs as suggestions. Generally speaking this means when I see a sign that says 45, I’m usually going 52. Nothing egregious mind you. (We won’t talk about my average cruising speed on the interstate going to Maine.)

What I am about to describe happens every single day, without exception. If it was an occasional annoyance I could just chalk it up to chance. No, this is an epidemic. At least twice per trip the following situation plays out…

I’ll be driving along minding my own business at a 52-55 mph clip when I will notice a line of cars tapping their brakes in the lane ahead of me. Then I will watch several of them swerving into the right lane. What’s the problem? I’ll tell you what the problem is—there’s some moron going 30 mph in the left lane!! Are they in the left lane because they are about to make a left hand turn? Noooo. They simply prefer the left lane, the passing lane for their meandering. When I finally am able to pull up along side the offender I already know what I will find. 95% of the time it is an octogenarian, eyes barely peering over the steering wheel which they have in a death grip. It is more often than not a woman, only because I imagine there are far more octogenarian female drivers than male since they outlive us. When this happens—again, EVERY MORNING—I must reign in my indignation. I was always taught to respect my elders and one day I will be an octogenarian motorist, which I’m sure is going to terrify my adult children. But if that happens I will probably be like my grandfather who had his driver’s license taken away at age 85 because he was clocked going his age the wrong way down route 29!!

But, this isn’t even the worst part about this business. Yes, the older drivers are super annoying. But the worst is when you pull up along side the moron in question and discover that it’s not Granny Bluehair. No, it’s a 30 year old working the steering wheel with his knees so he can devote both hands to the typing of a super important text message that can’t possibly wait. I would like to be able to say that when I am presented with this particular scenario, I maintain my composure, remembering that I am a Christian man who has been taught to love his neighbor since I was a child. Unfortunately, I have been known to attempt to start a conversation with people like this by using the turned up palm gesture, a horrified facial expression and shouting, “DUDE!!!!!?????”

Yeah…so that’s my personal grievance for the day.

The Dentist. You Can Run But You Can’t Hide.

 Long time readers of this space know of my strained relationship with the dental sciences. In September of 2016 I wrote a series of four posts on the subject, which many of you found hilarious although I was not trying to be funny! As it turns out that was my last visit—until a couple weeks ago. Why did I go back? Did I have a toothache? Was I experiencing mouth pain of any kind? NO. What I was experiencing was guilt. What kind of grown man doesn’t go to the dentist for ten years in a row? Although I brush and floss every single day like I’m supposed to, going to the dentist at least once a year for a proper cleaning is universally understood to be a best practice. So, there I was at the dentist’s office for my once a decade cleaning, sweating like a whore in church. 

“Oh, I see that it’s been ten years since we got x-rays,” the hygienist mentioned gleefully. 

Next thing I know she’s shoving something huge in my mouth and asking me to try to be still. It was a big ask. My inaugural dental experience happened on the campus of New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary when I was seven years old. It involved dental students, the kind of experience that provided a lifetime worth of trauma, and made the administration of nitrous oxide an absolute must for any future dental procedure, even simple cleanings. Dentistry remains the one great exception of my life. I have always been a person who lacks a proper level of fear. It used to drive my mother crazy. I would do dangerous things all the time without a proper appreciation of the risks. Very few things scare me which is not a function of excess bravery as much as it is an oversupply of stupidity. But when it comes to the prospect of strapping myself into a dentist chair for an hour I am transformed into a whimpering coward. So, a couple weeks ago I was kinda proud of myself for taking the step to revisit the sights, smells and emotional torture of the dental professionals at Inspired Smiles.

I knew full well what the results would be of allowing new X-rays to be taken. Ten years of neglect would reveal itself in the form of a suggestion that I come back in two weeks for a “consultation only visit” whereby the full extent of the damage would be discussed and a “game plan of action” would be offered. That meeting was yesterday. Because I am famous for  forgetting every single word a doctor/dentist says to me as soon as I get in my car to drive home—Pam came with me. As we were guided up a flight of stairs to our palatial consultation appointment room I told her that it reminded me of all the times I was called to the principal’s office back in school.

The room was tastefully decorated and strangely calming and the first thought that went through my head when I sat down on the soft and comfortable sofa was, “Damn, I bet you’ve got to pull a boatload of teeth to pay for a room like this!”

The news wasn’t all bad. There would be no “extractions” in my “game plan of action.” But I would need some crowns and several fillings, and since my dental back story was so troubled, sedation would be employed. As the competent and compassionate professionals explained everything to me I began making mental calculations—how much is this gonna set me back?

I don’t have dental insurance…and never have had dental insurance. Medicare doesn’t cover dental, so I knew this was coming out of my pocket. So, I started to add up stuff in my head. A figure came to mind. When the final number was announced it was exactly double—this was going to be a five figure “game plan of action”, which I suppose if you divided it by the ten years I boycotted Inspired Smiles, is about what going to the dentist every six months would have cost. But this way I would only be terrorized once instead of twice a year for ten years. 

It seems like a good bargain to me.

The First Three Weeks of October

 The middle of September is when I begin scanning the 10-day weather forecasts for Camden, Maine. We will be spending the first three weeks of October at the lake in Searsmont. This morning when I checked, the high temperature for the next 10 days was in the 60’s with lows between the upper 40’s and low 50’s.

Fall in Maine is a completely different world than the summer. For one thing by October many businesses on the coast have shut down. Even though the leaf-peepers crowd comes, the traffic is much less than the summer months. The worst thing about the Fall trip is that most of the ice cream shops have closed. But most of our favorite shops and restaurants are still open and it’s awfully nice not having to fight for a parking space on Main Street.

It’s the leaves that make it special. The lake becomes lined with bright colors of orange, red and yellow.. On clear mornings the colors reflect off the water and it’s often hard to tell what’s real and what is a reflection. When I’m out fishing in the kayak I’ll see a lone red leaf floating past me and no matter how many times I’ve seen them, it still makes me smile.

We spend less time on the lake in the Fall, not because it’s not delightful, but because there are so many festivals to attend, orchards to explore and hikes to take. One year Pam and I decided to make the 6 mile round trip walk from Camden harbor to Rockport, a trek that hugged the coastline almost the entire way. It was in the middle 50’s that day with bright sunshine. It might have been the best single day we have ever spent in Maine—although the hike featured both of us taking a spill along the way. Luckily neither of us were hurt, and each fall prompted the other to laugh out loud! 

Another wonderful difference between summer Maine and fall Maine is that in the fall each night there’s a fire. I can’t count the number of times we have snuggled up on the couch, fire blazing in the fireplace watching October baseball. Nothing in this world is better than that.

So for the first three weeks of October we will spend all of our money in Mid-Coast Maine. We will immerse ourselves in the created beauty all round us. We will drive all the backroads of Waldo, Knox and Lincoln counties marveling at the colors. We will eat like Kings. We will break out our long sleeve shirts and long pants. And, we will be grateful for every day we get to live in such a place.

Grandparent’s Day

 Several weeks ago our daughter told us that there was a Grandparent’s Day planned at Silas’ daycare whereby grandparents were invited to join their grandchild for a special lunch time together. Would we be interested in participating, she asked. Are you kidding? Of course we would. We immediately made plans to make the six hour drive down the night before, then show up at the event, after which we would be allowed to take him home for the weekend. Neither of us has been to St. Andrew’s Daycare. We’ve seen pictures of Silas doing various things there but we don’t know his teachers or any of the other kids in his class. We were thrilled at the prospect.

Yes…we didn’t think twice about making a six hour drive to spend thirty minutes eating lunch with our grandchild. Would it be easier if we lived closer? Yes. But just because something isn’t easy doesn’t mean you don’t do it.

Then, I get sick with whatever the hell it is that I have, and despite our best efforts, Pam now has some form of the same affliction. The result of this unhappy situation is that we will not be able to make it to Grandparent’s Day. Pam waited until yesterday to break the news. She explained the situation via text. I read the text while sitting in the sun of the patio at Hope Church. It was then that the strangest thing happened. All of a sudden I found myself fighting back tears. I mean, I was by myself on the patio, trying to figure out what was wrong. This is new territory for me. I’m not a cryer. I never cried when my kids were born. When my Mom passed away I didn’t shed a tear until six months later while on a treadmill at the Marriott Hotel on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.

Here’s what happened. As soon as I read Pam’s text a vision popped into my head. I saw a group of toddlers sitting on picnic blankets surrounded by grandparents on the green astroturf of St. Andrew’s play area…and off to the side there was Silas all alone. The image devastated me. What I didn’t know was that at that very moment Pam was having the same vision and was just as heartbroken as I was. Thankfully a few minutes later our daughter replied that she 100% understood and for us not to feel bad because Jon had decided he would meet Silas for lunch on that day so he wouldn't be alone. This news came as a tremendous relief to us both.

It wasn’t until later that I thought of how ridiculous we were being. Silas is only 15 months old. When he grows up he will have absolutely zero memory of a random lunch date in 2026. The fact that his grandparents weren’t there with him won’t even register in his consciousness. So, why did the thought of not being there for him bring such instant and deep despair? Honestly, I don’t know. It feels silly now that a day or so has passed. But as it was happening it was as real an emotion as I have ever felt, something close to a fear of letting him down.

The list of things over which I have no control is long and forbidding. Pam and I will have limited influence in Silas’ life. He’s just beginning, we are closer to the end than the beginning. But there are things over which I do have control. I can make sure that when there’s a special event—we are there. If he’s ever in a play or has a game, if there’s a party, if he is graduating from something—we will be there. You just can’t miss the occasion, the assembly, the celebration.

Or…grandparent’s day.

Health is Wealth

 Over a week ago in this space I told you of waking up feeling nasty after a trip to see our grandson. Nine days on, two Patient First trips, and six prescriptions later I’m still feeling nasty. For the past three days I have had no voice. After my first visit to PF produced no improvement I went back four days later where a younger, cockier physician said I had pneumonia and wrote two new remedies for me to try. But then 24 hours later I received a follow up call back from a friendly and upbeat nurse informing me that upon further study of my X-Ray the house radiologist determined that it was not, in fact, pneumonia. In the meantime I continue to be hounded my a relentless cough that has produced enough vile phlegm to fill a large Py-Rex mixing bowl.

The worst part of this ordeal is the memories that have come with it. The cough is exponentially worse at night which does two things. First it makes getting a decent night’s sleep impossible. You wake up every hour on the hour from all the coughing, your entire chest and throat on fire and wracked by soreness—which brings me to the bad memories part. It was 23 years ago when a similar relentless nighttime cough ended up sending me to the hospital for emergency open heart surgery. A guy never forgets something like that. So, when I wake up at 2:15 with a pounding headache coughing my lungs off, I’m right back at St. Mary’s all over again for about two minutes until I snap out of it.

This morning at 4:17 I can report some progress. The volume of coughing is far less than it was two or three days ago. At night I’m sleeping two hours between waking up instead of one. I’m not as sore as I’ve been—maybe because I’ve gotten all my coughing muscles in great shape from the brutal workout load. I’ve been asked to return to PF for a follow up X-Ray either today or tomorrow, I forget which.

Pam and I have kept a safe distance throughout all of this, as safe a distance as is possible when you live in the same house. Nevertheless, she has started to have some symptoms, so far minor. I am told that I am not contagious. 

So, it’s safe to say that I didn’t have “Get a viral lung infection and cough for nine days” on my bingo card for the month of September…but here we are. I am reminded of the very real truth of that corny formulation that I’ve heard older people say over the years. Your health really is your wealth.

My Artificial Intelligence Problem

 I have not yet downloaded Meta AI. I have never once used ChatGPT. This places me very much on the outside looking in at the burgeoning artificial intelligence craze taking over the world. My wife has used this technology many times with great success, once when the cupboard was a bit bare she simply took a picture of several random ingredients she had on hand and asked ChatGPT what kind of meal she could make out of them. The result was delicious! I have also many other friends who have embraced AI, even one of the pastors at my church admitted to using it to clarify a point in a sermon. This technology has the look and feel of something that is inevitable, the sort of thing that in five years people will wonder how we ever got along without. I am not at all blind to the many benefits of AI especially in the area of medical research and high end computing. My problem is basically with the name we have given it—artificial intelligence. There is nothing at all artificial about intelligence. Its creation comes from real intelligence culled from several thousands of years of human discovery, fed into a new shiny machine. But there’s another thing about AI that gives me pause.

I am a writer. Well, not a real writer who does it for a living, but one for whom writing has been my number one hobby and closest friend for over fifty years. I believe that if you have written seven novels, twenty-five short stories and over three thousand blog posts during your life, you’re entitled to call yourself a writer. The question posed by AI for a writer is a simple one—could I submit a difficult chapter of a story I’m trying to write into an artifical intelligence program and ask it to clean up any inconsistencies with grammar or plot construction? From everything I’ve come to understand about this technology the answer is YES. Not only can it be done but it can be done in milliseconds instead of the months it might take me to work the thing out. But at that point, would it still be rightfully considered my work?

Some might say, isn’t this the same thing an editor would do? No, an editor would present problems with plot or sentence formation or dialogue to me and ask me to do a rewrite. 

But, the story would still be mine, even after the AI rewrite, so what’s the big deal?

Well, I think there’s a huge deal. No, a post-AI version of my story is no longer my story in any authentic way. I am not here suggesting that my version would be better, in fact I’m quite sure that AI could produce much smoother prose than I can since it has access to practically every word of fiction every written—and I don’t.

The joy of writing, the thing that makes it so damn fulfilling is the mystery of creating something from nothing. Every story I have ever written began as a random thought, a flash of memory, a burst of inspiration—what if?? I believe this is how it is with the creation of all kinds of art, especially music. Do we really want to turn over this process to machines? I would rather read a flawed book written by a fellow human being than a perfectly crafted one produced by a computer program. I would rather listen to a melody that sprang from the depths of the human soul than one that was crafted by a finely tuned algorithm who never felt pain, loss or joy.

 

What Would YOU Do?

 We had planned to spend a few days with our grandson this past week. It had been over 5 weeks since we last saw him and that was simply unacceptable. Two days before we were to head down to Columbia we got a text from Kaitlin that Silas had come down with big time nasal congestion after a night of coughing and was heading to the doctor’s office where she was told that he had the croup. As a bonus, Kaitlin was in the process of losing her voice. We had to make a decision. After maybe two minutes’ deliberation Pam sent Kaitlin the following text:

Me in the 1980’s: Mom, Kaitlin’s throwing up and Patrick has strep throat and a fever of 104.

Nana: No worries! Grandad and I will be there in an hour.

Of course we went down. This morning I feel like crap. I’ve got a headache, sore throat and runny nose. A crew is about to show up at my house to begin painting the exterior trim work. I’ve got a dentist appointment at 11:00 which I don’t know what to do with considering my present status. 

If I had it to do over would I still have voluntarily spent three days with a sick little boy?

Yes. A thousand times…yes.

Grandparents Vs. Car Seats

 I have long been of the opinion that not every innovation that is thrust upon us represents progress. No where is this more true than in the area of cutting edge children’s safety protocols. Pam and I just got back in town after spending several days taking care of our little grandson. While there our experience with several of these new safety innovations brought to mind that wonderful old Ella Fitzgerald song, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.

First of all there’s the question of car seats.

The business of securing a small child securely in a two ton vehicle as it barrels down the highway at 70 mph is an obviously important task. But the current level of complexity associated with these devices cannot in any cogent way be considered an improvement over the car seats of 30 years ago. For one thing, the human species has not yet evolved the third hand necessary to properly secure a child into the sixteen-point Rube-Goldberg system of engineering on display in current models. 

When I was a young father, the car seats we had were state of the art for that era which meant there was a big V-shaped harness that draped over the child after he had been placed in the seat. There was one big hook on the end of this V-shaped strap that clicked neatly into a metal clip close to the child’s crotch. Once secured the straps fell perfectly down from the kid’s shoulders, across his chest, to said crotch. The entire securing process—assuming the child wasn’t in full meltdown mode because I refused to buy her ice cream—took all of 15 seconds start to finish. 

What Pam and I encountered this weekend was the equivalent of asking a parent (or grandparent in this case) to perform advanced algebra without a calculator, while it was 95 degrees out with 100% humidity and also while your grandchild had the croup. The new regime consists of 6 different straps that must be secured to each other. Unfortunately all six of these straps happen to be located exactly where you just placed your wiggly grandchild after sitting him in the car seat. Job one is to fish all six straps out from behind a sitting child who has no insensitive to help in any way. Once all six are successfully yanked out from his nether regions you can begin the complicated system of attaching all six straps to the multi-point hooks to be found not in or around the crotch area but instead at the child’s belly button. Unfortunately getting all six to meet at this agreed upon location at the same time is next to impossible. When we were experiencing this dilemma I had just started the car and turned the air conditioner on full blast which had the effect of lowering the temperature in the back seat approximately 5 degrees …from 95 to 90…while Pam was reaching exasperation Level DefCom 5. “Its so tight!! I can’t get them to snap into place!! Even if I do, the poor child won’t be able to breathe! This is ridiculous!!!”

I unhooked my seat belt—for no discernible reason because I had no expertise to bring to bear on such a project—but I thought maybe the unclicking sound might demonstrate a heightened level of concern on my part for what she was going through back there. I should point out that during this exasperating ordeal our grandson was as good as gold, although he would have been within his rights to have been throwing the mother of all tantrums. Finally Pam remembered that there was a special button hidden in the seat under the cloth lining which when reached with that third hand I mentioned earlier lived up to its official name in the owners manual of this seat-o-pain—-the magic button. She dug around blindly under the padding of the seat, finally secured the button just about the time that the blood flow was being cut off from her hand and just like that the entire apparatus loosened, allowing her to make the 6 point click. I should point out that instead of 15 seconds, this procedure took ten minutes—if you don’t count the three years it took off of our lives.

Now…it’s true that if we had gotten in an accident, our entire car might have been demolished but that kid, in that seat was going nowhere, my friends. Of course, good luck to the policeman, or fireman responsible for removing him from the car. Would they know how to find the magic button??

Of course, I could also tell you about the lengths parents are being asked to go to secure their little ones in their high chairs—which I feel compelled to add are not hurdling down the highway at 70 mph. But that discussion will have to wait for another day.

Suffice it to say that while the Olympian distortions required to manhandle these safety features might be perfectly suited to young parents with their nimble, arthritis-free joints, it plays hell with us grandparents! But, we’re doing the best we can…and waiting for that third hand.

The Lost Art of Going to the Movies

 When I was an extremely awkward teenager growing up in Hanover County one of the most prominent forms of social cohesion and assimilation was to be found at…the movies. Except for the days when you played ball, Friday and Saturday nights belonged to a collection of movie theaters scattered around Ashland and Richmond. These were the places where dates happened. Two tickets with popcorn and a fountain drink ran you around $6.

We would eagerly await the green section’s arrival in Friday’s News Leader, where all the showtimes and movie reviews were listed. It wasn’t a question of if you were going to the pictures, it was only a question of which one and with whom.

There was the Ashland Theater which had the advantage of being down the street from Mayberry’s Ice cream and close to my home in Elmont. But if you wanted to go where the action was that would mean driving into Richmond. The wider variety of movie joints meant a better selection. There was Broad Street Cinema, Ridge Cinema, Willow Lawn and the Byrd Theater. But my go-to place was the Westhampton which had the even greater advantage of being right next door to Phil’s Continental Lounge, which sounds much more high class than it actually was. However you could get the best club sandwich in Richmond for less than 3 bucks.

What I remember the most about the movie experience back then was the almost complete absence of annoying ads before the movie started. There would normally be maybe three movie previews and if you were lucky a hilarious cartoon. But that was it.

Today, everything has changed. The overwhelming majority of movies Pam and I have seen over the past decade or so have been enjoyed from the privacy and comfort of our sofa. The popcorn is way cheaper and the floor isn’t sticky.

If you put a gun to my head at this moment and asked me to name five movies that have been released in the past year I couldn’t do it. The only one that comes to mind is The Odyssey, and the only reason I know about that one is the fact that it has managed to do something that hardly any film does these days—it has penetrated the zeitgeist, becoming part of the interminable culture wars of our time. Still…you couldn’t pay me enough money to go to one of our cineplexes to watch the thing. Too much goo on the floors, confiscatory concession prices and annoying movie-goers on their cellphones. Besides, in a couple months I can watch it at home.

But we have lost something along the way, the shared experience of the cinematic moment, the magic of the big screen…and I miss it terribly, just not enough to fork over fifty bucks to bring it back.

Although this morning I saw a preview online of a movie due to be released November 2nd…a biopic about somebody other than a pop musician—“Jimmy”, the story of Jimmy Stewart and his rise to stardom and his decision to serve his country in WWII, not as a publicity prop but as a bomber pilot over Nazi Germany. 

For this…I will risk sticky shoes.

Becoming a Helper

 Over the past few months I have become much more aware that I am no longer a young man. I know what some of you are thinking right now—what took you so long? I mean, I know how old I am. I can do the math. But I have always possessed the confidence that I was different, that I had been able to somehow mitigate the normal ravages of getting old through a combination of exercise, determination, superior genetics and several Jedi mind tricks. But I have recently learned that doing a thousand pushups and walking 60 miles every month doesn’t change the fact that you soon will enter your seventh decade. The warranty has long ago expired.

Life is harder now. I can still do almost everything I’ve always done, but now things hurt. Cutting the grass and picking up fallen pine cones in my yard makes me sore for a couple days. It’s annoying. Suddenly it seems like I have an awful lot of doctor’s appointments on my calendar. I own a blood pressure taking machine, for crying out loud.

Then there are the surprising ambushes that life throws your way, little reminders of how fast time rushes by. Like last night, for instance. 

I found myself in a crowd of wonderful people at my niece’s house where we had gathered to celebrate her son’s 16th birthday. My great nephew. I remember when he was born. I remember when he was an annoying toddler. Now he’s mostly no longer annoying. Instead he’s tall, handsome and smart. When did all of this happen? How is it possible that I even have great nephews and nieces, one of which is heading off to college in five days, another of which suddenly has obtained a…boyfriend? I am now the grand uncle of…grown adults. How is this even possible? I watched them all eating ice cream cake. I looked at my grown nieces and tried to remember what it felt like to hold them when they were babies and thought how quickly life races along.

I’m a grandfather now, aging’s fabulous consolation. I’m also retired, finally free from the pressures of earning a living. Waking up each day to a new ache or pain is annoying as hell, but there are benefits to having not yet assumed room temperature. I get to watch my grandson grow up. I get to help my kids however they need me to help them. I get to be generous whenever an opportunity to be so presents itself. I get to be the person Mr. Rogers used to tell my kids to look for.

I get to be a helper.

The Purpose of Life

 Just finished reading a book by one of my favorite writers, Dean Koontz. It wasn’t one of his best, probably wouldn’t crack my top ten of Koontz books. But like all of his work the narrative asked me to ponder an interesting question—what is my life’s purpose? Of course, Koontz isn’t the only novelist to explore this theme. It has been a staple of fiction writing since the first letters were chiseled onto stone tablets. But Dean Koontz is great at it. In this novel, A Friend of the Family, he offers the suggestion that the highest human calling is sacrificial love, spending your life’s energy pursuing the love and care of others. The author has succeeded in making me consider the question.

I am fortunate to have been born into a loving family. My life came fully loaded with people who loved and cared for me and whom I learned to love and care for in return. I did nothing to earn this great good fortune. It was simply the hand I was dealt. I could very easily have been born into chaos, hatred, violence and resentment…or even worse, great wealth, all of which would have doomed the story of my life or at the very least made a normal life nearly impossible to achieve. I was lucky, if you believe in luck, which I do not. There is no such thing as bad luck, only bad decisions. Good luck is a fiction pushed by the envious. It has been my experience in life that the harder I work the luckier I get, but that is a discussion for another day.

What of this business of life’s purpose?

As beautiful and fulfilling as familial love is, and as crucial as it is for human flourishing, there’s something else, equally crucial and fulfilling—finding other human beings in the world to love and care for. I am not here speaking of romantic love, finding your life partner. I’m talking about random people who were once strangers but become dear friends. For many of us these people arrive in our lives in the form of a college roommate, someone we meet at work, a neighbor, someone we meet at church or while standing in line at Starbucks. We never know when it will happen. Sometimes during the loneliest days of life we wonder if it will ever happen. Too often we become so jaded and scarred by life’s cruelties we are unable to even manage toleration, much less love, for our fellow human beings. If this happens to enough people the world can quickly grow dark.

As I read Koontz, his biases began creeping into the text. Soon there was an adorable dog in the middle of the story, then a creepy psychopath that made your skin crawl. Then his deep Catholic faith began to insinuate itself as he pointed out a couple of things that Jesus had to say on the subject of sacrificial love from the 15th chapter of John’s gospel—Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. He didn’t, but he could have added what Jesus said to his disciples two chapters earlier—By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.

But there’s the rub. IF. 

He could have said that you love one another, as if it was the assumed outcome. But he said if which suggests to me that this whole loving each other business is our choice. We get to make the decision to be open to finding people to love and taking advantage of the gift.

Something happened to me about a year ago that came to mind while pondering Koontz’s question. I was in the cafe one morning. My daughter was four months pregnant with her first child and our first grandchild. We were all thrilled by this state of affairs but on this morning I was worried about her. I can’t remember why, maybe she had not been feeling well or maybe there had been a strange movement or lack of movement that had troubled her. Whatever the reason, that morning as I drank my coffee there was a pit of worry in my stomach. Then I saw a young woman walk past my table. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and slightly further along than Kaitlin. I had never seen her before, didn’t know her from Adam. 

It is a risky thing to approach a woman and inquire about her pregnant condition. There is the real risk that she will get creeped out by the strange man standing at her table asking how far along she is, trying to explain that his daughter is also pregnant and he just wanted to congratulate her when in fact what he wanted was reassurance that whatever his daughter was going through was completely normal. Without thinking through all the ways approaching her could go wrong, there I was, hoping for the best.

Turned out that this was her first pregnancy too. She was one month further along than Kaitlin. Almost everything Kaitlin was going through, she had also gone through and survived! Her stories comforted me. She started asking all about Kaitlin. I loved having someone to brag to about my daughter. Soon I started noticing that she came into the cafe almost as often as I did. In the weeks and months after that first encounter, we kept each other up to date on the progress of each new life and soon became friends. Now when I see her or she sees me she asks about Kaitlin and Silas and I ask her about little Chip. I see pictures of him on Facebook and smile. She is always eager to see my latest pictures of Silas. We each found someone at the Cafe who was once a stranger, but because of a random and awkward introduction became someone new that each of us could love and care for. It’s a beautiful thing.

There isn’t really a simple answer to Koontz’s question. Life has many purposes, I suppose. But you could do a lot worse than loving and caring for as many people as possible during the short whisper of wind that is our life on this planet

Back Home

 We made it home safe and sound to our beloved steam bath of Short Pump on Saturday afternoon. The battery in my Cadillac was dead. While removing the many sticks and pine cones which covered my yard while we were away, sweat dropped from the end of my nose like a leaky faucet. When we arrived at the Lodge yesterday morning for church, we were told—cheerfully—that the AC was “struggling a bit.” Now, this morning at 6:40, there are five men stomping atop our house ripping our 28 year old roof apart. There are gigantic tarpaulins draped over the shrubs and large hulking pieces of shingles raining down from the sky. Each of these five men are wearing long pants with long sleeved hooded sweatshirts. In a few hours it will be a 94 degree sauna out there.

Why did we come home again??

I’ll tell you why we came home. Because we love this place. We have been the only people to ever live in this house. This is where we put down roots in the world. This is where we raised our kids. Our lives have been planted in this soil for nearly three decades. 

And then there’s the matter of our neighbors. The photograph attached to this post is what greeted us after Saturday’s 9 hour drive. I can picture Jamie and the girls on their knees in their back yard driveway painting the letters. It’s happened many times over the years…we arrive home after 6 weeks in Maine and they have plastered some sort of creative welcome home message somewhere on the property. At some point this week we will go next door and give the kids their Maine presents. Years ago they were easy to shop for, now they are all so damned grown up it’s much more difficult. Next year there will be a new family living there. I’m sure they will be lovely, but I’d rather not think about that right now.

Later this morning I will be making my way over to the Cafe at Hope. That’s another thing I’ve missed, that place and those people.

So, as much as we love Maine, as important as our time there is to us each year, home is always here, waiting for us. We slip back into it like a silk glove.

Early Departure

 For the first time ever Pam and I voluntarily agreed to cut short our Maine trip by 24 hours. We were scheduled to leave this morning for Short Pump but yesterday there arrived a perfect storm of misery which we interpreted as a direct message from the State of Maine that we were no longer welcomed. For yesterday was the hottest day of our wonderful 6 weeks, a blistering 90 degrees with humidity unaccustomed to this place—in a lake house with no air conditioning! Since it was packing day we were traipsing around the place sweating like pigs. Around 3:00 in the afternoon I read the room and the tea leaves and concluded that there was no chance that my wife was going to make it through a night without AC. So we made the decision to throw everything in the car and hit the road a day early, drive as far as we could and sleep in an air-conditioned hotel—which explains what I’m doing typing the post in a Hampton Inn in Sturbridge, Massachusetts at 5:30 in the morning. This morning, Saturday the 8th of August we have a 10 hour drive ahead of us before we can sleep in our own bed. Piece of cake.

One last thing about our Maine summer. I travelled here with Lucy’s remains. This was our first trip without her in nearly ten years since she passed away earlier this year. The idea was that since this was her favorite place on earth, the lake would be her final resting place. 

But, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I know it’s silly. It’s her ashes in a jar. But each time I thought about sprinkling them in the lake she loved so much I just couldn’t do it, I couldn’t bear to part with her. So I will bring the jar back home.

I’ve had dogs all my life. I have loved them all. But Lucy was different in ways I can’t entirely explain. I think I will miss her for the rest of my life.

The Last Week Vibe

 This is our last week in Maine for the summer. Just writing that made my stomach turn over a little. For only the third time in the last 38 days…it’s raining. Great news for this drought-ridden state, but not great for the feng shui when it’s already your last week. 

Yesterday we decided to take a road trip to a part of Maine we had never been before. We don’t do this very often because it involves actually getting in a car and driving away from the lake. So when we do it’s usually on a day where the weather is sub-optimal. Yesterday was to be one such day with heavy fog and low clouds. 

Our destination was an island in the Penobscot Bay called Deer Isle, and the primary coastal town at the southernmost tip called Stonington. As the crow flies it is only 20 miles across the bay from Camden. But you can get nowhere in Maine as the crow flies.Instead it was a 66 mile drive which took an hour and a half and took us through a fair share of gorgeous scenery and several communities that seemed locked in a battle to determine who could construct the largest pile of junk in their front yard. I mean I’m talking some world class junkyardery. I chose this particular island to visit because I have seen many homes come up for sale here over the years nestled romantically in emerald green coves. And the town of Stonington looked quaint and charming in all the pictures, and while Stonington was indeed quite charming, we now know that buying a house on this island won’t be happening anytime soon. For one thing, if either one of us had a stroke on that island they would have to medevac us onto the mainland via floatplane! Although Stonington might not have adequate life-saving capabilities, it has a killer Opera House! And in its defense I had one of the finest bowls of clam chowder I have ever eaten at a place called 27 Fathoms. 

But life is about more than clam chowder. It’s also about more than sardines, although had we not made the trip yesterday we would have been unaware that Maine was more than just Vacationland, but Sardineland as well. We know this courtesy of the 20 foot tall fisherman guy holding up a massive roadside sign informing us of this fact. I have attached the picture for your edification.

So today it is pouring rain and that danged puzzle is over there on the dinner table mocking my incompetence. I have my work cut out for me.

Becoming a Puzzler

 I have never been a puzzler. Every year since forever there’s always a puzzle table on vacation. I always stand there for a couple minutes watching others sorting through the pile of chopped up pieces of art astonished at their patience. Every once in a while I would spot a piece and snap it in to place just to let them know that I was capable, then I would slip away and leave them to it. But lately—“lately” meaning this year—I have found myself the designated puzzler in this house and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. 

For one thing it is at once satisfying and excruciating, this puzzling business. Finding a piece and slipping it into place brings a brief but visceral thrill. But the searching process feels a bit like sorting through a dumpster looking for something decent to eat. The longer it takes the more frustrated I become. Just about the time I’m about to give up I will stumble upon a couple of pieces that fit together which leads to an embarrassing fist pump and a devious giggle.

What makes this new puzzling experience so strange is the fact that it requires something that I have always struggled with—sitting for extended periods of time. And yet, there I have been at the puzzling table night after night, mumbling to myself as my backside starts to cramp up and my back tightens, telling myself about how ridiculous it all is but somehow not being able to stand up and walk away.

So far I’ve completed one 1000 piece puzzle and one 500 piece puzzle. I am currently engaged in mortal combat with yet another 1000 piece puzzle which, at the rate I am going, might not got finished by the time we roll out of here in eight days.

So, I suppose I’m a puzzler now. Pam comes over every once in a while to offer encouragement, “Oh look at you. You finished the dog’s face! Good job, honey.” I can’t decide whether or not she’s seriously paying me a compliment or being sarcastic. Ron and Bill would have put this particular puzzle together in four or five hours. I’m on day four!

Maybe it’s an aging thing? Don’t get me wrong, I’m still plenty busy up here. I’ve gone fishing every day, I’ve put probably 50 miles on the kayak, I’ve played a couple rounds of golf and stayed faithful to my exercise regimen. But at night after dinner I find myself hunched over at the puzzle table like a man possessed. Part of it is the fact that the internet up here must be powered by a half dozen field mice racing around a tread wheel somewhere. To call it slow would be an insult to turtles. So scrolling is not an option, and watching television is very hit or miss.

So…I guess I’m a puzzler now.

Missing My Hope Peeps

 I love everything about being in Maine for six weeks every summer. The rhythms we fall into up here are comforting, the pace of living here rejuvenates. The views we are greeted with are new every morning and make you think that anything is possible.

But today is Sunday, and every Sunday I miss my church and the family of people who make it special. Actually it’s one of the few things about home that I miss. Every year when we get home we realize how much we missed our house, our neighbors and our trusted routines, but we never think of any of them while we’re here. It’s different with my church. Each Sunday I think of them and miss the familiar faces. 

This is 2026. I can livestream the service…and I do, but it’s not the same. The music sounds tinny and off a beat. There are no cookies. The cameras don’t show me the faces of the people I love the most at that place because all of them are busy on the other side of the cameras. I don’t hear their voices, I can’t shake their hands or hug them. The rest of the world learned during COVID what I have always known. There is no substitute for the gathering, no replacement for the assembly.

I will listen to the sermon. Last week it was Pete, the week before that Kyle, before that David.  No telling who it will be today. Summer plays havoc with the speaker roster. Those guys take vacations too. This particular sermon series hasn’t been my favorite, but there are 3,000 people who show up every Sunday at Hope. I’m sure that there are some in that crowd for which the current series has been a godsend. That’s the way it works in a community as large and diverse as ours. We all hear the sermons differently, but each is a blessing. But watching it on a computer screen isn’t the same as being there in the midst of it. It is possible to hear a sermon but not feel it.

But I am grateful for the technology. After a day on this gorgeous lake I will settle down sometime this evening and check it out. Meanwhile, I’ll be thinking of my Hope Peeps…and missing them.

Only in Maine!!

 Last year I showed up at Rockland Golf Club at 6:00am without a tee time or any golf clubs. This is not an unusual circumstance for me while I’m in Maine. Usually I play three times while I’m here, each time in the wee hours of the morning, with rented clubs and usually by myself where it only takes me two and a half hours to walk 18 holes. But last year on July 27th I was paired with two random guys, Al and Chris. Had a blast playing with them. Apparently they met five years ago when the two of them got paired together and have been playing together in Maine ever since. Well, after last year I was added to their group. I got a text a few days ago from them asking if I wanted to meet them this morning at 6:40 for a round at Rockland. Of course I said yes!

It’s profoundly embarrassing that here I am in my seventeenth month of retirement and it had been an entire year since I last played golf—with these same two dudes on this same golf course. All I had with me was a zip-lock bag full of golf balls. The course has no driving range so my first swing was on the first tee box, a 520 yard par five, which I laced right down the middle. Such a weird game.

Three hours later I lipped out from five feet for what would have been a par to shoot 88. I walked the entire way, a six mile hike up and down lots of hills. My playing partners, being a lot smarter than me, rode in a golf cart like reasonable people do.  We are playing again next Wednesday at a new course they will be introducing me to somewhere up near Augusta, a 45 minute drive from the lake.

After golf, since I was only a few minutes away from Ruckus Donuts, I dropped by and picked up two boxes of four donuts, one box for the hard working people at On The Water in Maine, and the other box for us. It’s currently 5:00 in the afternoon and there isn’t much left. However, I have discovered yet another fun fact about the aging process. Walking 18 holes of golf does not mix with fishing from a kayak. Apparently you can do one or the other on the same day…but not both. 

On another front, my cell phone beeped me earlier today, a “weather warning” for our area of Maine. I’m thinking, Wait…it’s 75 degrees and sunny. What could possibly constitute a warning?? —Please DO NOT enjoy yourself TOO MUCH. Then I saw the problem—apparently, the delightfully warm temperatures might have the effect of making people think that the water isn’t actually a freezing cold 55 degrees!! I have attached Photographic evidence, or you probably wouldn’t ‘t believe me. 

Only in Maine!!

Breaking My Silence on a HUGE Issue

 Despite the fact that I am currently on vacation and in general avoiding the news, sometimes a story comes along that demands my attention. Vacation or not, some things are so important, so potentially disruptive to our lives, a blogger like myself feels a certain responsibility, an obligation to address the issue that is utmost in the minds of my fellow Americans at this moment in time. Which issue am I referring to? Let me quote the Center for Disease Control:

A multistate outbreak of cyclosporiasis—a parasitic infection causing, EXPLOSIVE WATERY DIARRHEA* and stomach cramps.

Needless to say, this story got my attention. I mean, the very last thing I want to experience while on vacation is a case of EWD. My first response to this scary story was to ask the obvious question—“Was Taco Bell involved?” Upon a deeper dive into the story my fears were justified when I discovered that many of the cases were in fact connected to the historically bowel-stewing fast food franchise which I have successfully avoided for the past 30 years. The culprit, according to the CDC, was lettuce imported from—where else? Mexico.—and processed by an American company, Taylor Farms. Over the weekend, the CDC linked what has become known as raging diarrhea in the press, to the company who immediately placed a recall on all suspect lettuce. Of course, in a turn of events which should have come as a surprise to absolutely no one, the CDC then backtracked on their previous conclusion about Taylor farms and contaminated lettuce, saying that the test that had precipitated the recall turned out to be a false positive. Stinks for Taylor Farms. But as the government scientists proved back during the COVID fiasco, nothing has a shorter lifespan than a CDC press release.

Still, the very thought that there could be thousands of people out there about to be overcome with days of EWD, up to two weeks after a trip to Taco Bell sounds positively horrifying. Usually the symptoms of a meal at that place present in less than 24 hours, occasionally before you even make it back home! Now if you were stupid enough to toss back three tacos at midnight after setting through The Odyssey, you’re on the clock for 14 days?? What kind of fresh hell is this? It’s 100 degrees outside all over the country. We’ve been forced to watch soccer for the past 30 days. Donald Trump is in the White House and the Mayor of New York is a Communist. Haven’t we all suffered enough at this point?

* Is there any other kind? I mean, isn’t diarrhea, by definition…watery? 

Whatever Happened to the Pioneer Spirit?

 I am taking a huge risk with the post I am about to write. There is the very real possibility that it will not land well with some of you. I mean, I am in the midst of a six week vacation on a beautiful lake in Maine where the temperatures and humidity levels have been near perfect. By writing this I risk coming across like the guy on his private yacht off the shores of some Greek Island in the Adriatic complaining that the crackers on his seven meat, eight cheese charcuterie tray are too stale…or even worse, like that annoying Dodger fan who whines about  how many injuries his 400 million dollar roster has suffered. Nevertheless, I forge ahead.

Roughly 48 hours ago, a freaky storm cut a path through Maine’s mid-coast region. The entire thing lasted maybe 15 minutes or so, very little rain, no lightening and no thunder.  When it was over a ton of people were without power—including us. What this storm did have was tornado style winds. All of the furniture on our dock was swept away. Other people’s docks were lifted off their foundations. Trees were snapped in two bringing down power lines all over the place. Thirty minutes after the storm passed it was gorgeous outside, 75 and sunny, sky the crystal clear blue of Paul Newman’s eyes. 

We immediately alerted Tif, the all-powerful, all-knowing superstar of the rental market around here and also a wonderful friend. She assured us that all would be well soon. Then we texted our homeowner buddies on the lake to get their take on the situation. “No worries,” was the general consensus. “Happens all the time up here, it’s part of the Maine experience”, they all agreed. This all happened around 2:00 pm Thursday afternoon. All of our homeowner buddies had their power restored almost right away since they are all on the eastern shore of Quantabacook. All of us chumps on the west side were not so lucky.

The following 48 hours were instructive of several things, not the least of which is the fact that  neither Pam nor I would have made very good pioneers. As fate would have it, Pam and Kaitlin had started watching a remake of Little House on the Prairie week or so ago. Compared to the Engle clan, we look like a couple of helpless babies—although I should add that I was able to retrieve all of the deck furniture from the depths of the lake without a trip to the ER, so I’ve got that going for me.

Luckily, Paula and Ron are staying twenty minutes away from us on another lake, and they never lost power, so we were able to go over there the past two nights for dinner and a shower. Also, we were fortunate enough to have spectacular weather Friday, so the house never got hot. Still, it was embarrassing how annoyed we were that our phones and iPads were constantly running out of battery life. Aside from the annoyance of life without electricity, life has continued on its merry way. I caught the biggest bass I’ve ever caught up here a couple nights ago, and Pam persevered through the pitch black darkness of the house at night by continuing her cross stitching efforts with the aid of a battery operated light that drapes around her neck, shining light directly on the project at hand. I swear that women always finds a way to get it done.

All the while we kept getting updates from Tif via text—“should be back on by 8:00!” Then once 8:00 came and went—“Lying bastards! Now they’re saying 2:00! But today was going to be the day, no question about it—“Noon. Power will be on by noon!” Then, bless her heart, she starts apologizing all over the place like an act of God was somehow her fault. At one point she even offers to pay for us to replenish the fridge once the power was restored! Sometimes, she’s a little crazy.

But then, around noon today the power suddenly came on and we were so grateful…until five minutes later it went dark again. That head fake was painful. Despite overcast skies and windy conditions I headed out on the lake to take my frustrations out on the fish. A little over 3 hours later it finally came on for good. Pam is now in Belfast buying new groceries. I have finally taken a proper shower, shaved, and am now telling my whiny story to people who are probably rolling their eyes as they read. Well…sure, its not famine, pestilence or bloodshed…but you try going 48 hours without your back-massaging heating pad!